Something Sensational to Read on the Train - Gyles Brandreth

Something Sensational to Read in the Train: the Diary of a Lifetime

Author: Gyles Daubeney Brandreth

Those of you, who have witnessed the entity Gyles Daubeney Brandreth either on the box or in-person, would've bet their life-savings that he'd daily document his peruses somehow. Well, he does. 'Something Sensational to Read in the Train' is a self-orientated diary written by Mr. Brandreth, Seven hundred and twenty pages worth. Probably equating too an average half a day of 'Brandreth' thought process, in real-time. 'Oh so much to do and so little time to do it in,' mannerisms from a man effortlessly comfortable in his own company and that ultimately includes vocal cords. Gyles, shamefully holds the record of the longest ever 'after dinner speech,' of twelve hours of titillating his audience till comatose sets in and beyond, and repeat twice. A grandeur stamina for the brazened elongated waffle, private schoolboy assertiveness; consumes him to the core.

Seeing him is believing his eccentricities that is, and in the late nineteen nineties I did see him on an cold October night, I spotted the 'creature' of Brandreth; downstairs in a Borders book basement under a spot-light amongst his adoring ancient fans - gazing at their 'Gyles' - in awe at the knit-ware he was parading that reminded me of an experimental drip-painting by Jackson Pollock; armed with the unmistakable silver-spooned melodic vocals. Not that he was being tuneful, he was merely gargling with dialogue, just warming up. Suddenly, his face expressed anxiety; a burst of anger erupted shattering the near silence. He was reading an extract from an angry writer, obviously. It was short-lived, and he moved on. Another piece of literature was handed too him as if it was a gift from a higher force of intellect. Or of the same breeding as Gyles, the only one in the room able to read out the beautiful scriptures and do it with self assured 'arrogant' justice. It was all exhilarating, surreal, and for hours I had his vocals looping about in my ear-drums, trying to get out. He reminded me of an ultra eccentric, semi camp, Tony Blair who hadn't come down from his night of indulging on magic mushrooms; locked in a time when 'Hippies' dressed up in wooly carpets; when 'free love' was available, regardless of hairiness and hygiene.

Spontaneously combusts into French

Please note; there is something I must warn you about Gyles; he does spontaneously combust into a tourette style spasm of 'French.' In the world of Brandreth, only quaint, beautiful words will surpass; pâté en brioche: translates: pâté in pot; so much better sounding in French. I'm not convinced Brandreth is coherent in 'French.' For a shoulder shrugging native Frenchman living on a Barge in Lyon, I hasten a guess he'll not have a clue if Gyles galvanized his polished French vocabulary at the Monsieur with such intent French gusto. Ah the wonders of 'Franglaise! - Only to get the mandatory French snub, stroke audio 'pfuhh!' - The same goes in French restaurants; to the untrained English ear his French would sound absolutely perfect; while choosing his menu. However, the management knows what he wants, smiles apologetically, and avidly plays along with the joke, again and again. "Ah Gyles like his little joke, eh!" - Petite blague. Ah one for the diary Gyles, remember to document that anecdote. The silver cronies will laugh at that; they'll be knitting Brandreth's ear warmers while reading that part; while viewing 'CountDown' saying: "CountDown, is not the same without our 'Gyles."

Monsieur Brandreth's whole life seems colourful and notably theatrical. From his posture to his bulging round eyes of utter joy, rubbing shoulders with such greatness and they've been quite a few over the years. His flamboyancy and of course his vocals, delivered to adoring audiences, but alas not as adoringly as himself. Brandreth couldn't seek anymore love than from Brandreth himself. Being locked away in a vault, full of modern classics, his diary, and a mirror, just so he could view his multi-coloured ear-warmers giveth to him by his silver cronies, who'll still love him even if they found him to be a member of the Gestapo. Sadly, he is not that interesting. He may act out a mad King Lear astonishingly well, helped by having been a MP for the Conservative party; he's had a fair bit of practice at being mad. Also, he set the tiles alight on the 'Scrabble' world by being the Ronnie O'Sullivan of the Scrabble Board at one time, long ago. Gyles, tired quips of 'night on the tiles;' still amused the whimsical raconteur. Meanwhile the sane wriggled uneasily.

Did you know that our Gyles rubbed oil into Frankie Howerd's groin? Howerd knew Brandreth was gro-in places.

Gyles, certainly had rubbed shoulders and goodness knows what else with Celebrities of yester-year. Certified and self assured, not exactly tongue-tied at Gala events and VIP gallivants. He'd befriended Prince Phillip and provided him with gaffs that have made Prince Phillip infamous for them, usually done in a slightly aloof manner causing maximum discomfort at State visits. Gyles: booms out: "That's my boy!" with glee, arm raised, punching the air; shades of Alan Shearer goal celebratory perhaps. "Ah Shearer's Great Unc, should've been a New Zealander, a prolific sheep Farmer." As prolific as Brandreth arranging a photographer present with himself and famous people; then proudly documenting the occasion in the diary, he is famous for it. The same quirky famousness Gyles has for always wearing a tie under a hippy sweater, all tailored-up for an expedition to the North Pole.

Obviously, it is very tantalizing for his loving wife; while unraveling his layers after making that two hour adjustment to a diary anecdote, in the dead of night - making the posting infinitely less realistic but far more amusing according to the world of Brandreth. His love for his family is for all of us to be endeared to. Close friends' such as Stephen Milligan MP, while Brandreth was a Member of Parliament: Chester constituency 1992-95; made absurd observations that Gyles was aware of public image; Milligan quoted: "You won't ever see Gyles wear a bin-liner or a Snoopy costume." Whatever floats your boat Milligan; I don't think you can gauge some-ones fashion sense by whether they would wear a bin-liner or a Snoopy costume. I can't see Gok Wan saying: "Now what's it to be - a bin-liner or Snoopy outfit? Now if bin-liners were made wooly; that'll feed Gyles's fetish, as would lying in a field of extremely wooly sheep, partially naked, except for a Conservative tie; spouting out scenes from Richard III, as day breaks.

New revelations have emerged that Brandreth in his life-time of diary posts has in fact invented words, sayings, that only *he* could've been the reason for their existence. "Must dash. and Toodle-pip" Meaning good bye. They're many of these frivolous add-ons; as if he's saying good bye for now to a friend, his best friend, ie - his diary. True life best friends include Neil and Christine Hamilton they share similar eccentricities with over elaborate waffling including made-up wordage, to suit the ambience. You can see why they get on, they may synchronize diaries - pretty much: "darling this", "darling that." Everything a staged performance of 'Russell Harty' proportions, it couldn't get more 'lovey' unless you bedded down with them. Jeffery Archer shows up, tells a few 'porkies' and swans off on a date with his diary; oh sorry I mean his Mary. Nudge, nudge, wink wink!

Robert Maxwell (yes he did die in 1991, washed up like a beech Whale somewhere exotic) He aided Brandreth with Pension advice, among some 'lovey' talk. Maxwell was admired by Gyles (at the time) based on his nautical skill of swimming in from Czechoslovakia from humble circumstances, sadly to British shores. Brandreth believed every word. Why shouldn't he Maxwell was a very rich influential man with the highest of regards to personal integrity. Like every Tory he was blinded by gold coinage.

Touching moments descend onto the reader when expressing his sorrow for the late Simon Cadell (1950-1996) his oldest and dearest friend. Now the voice for Opal Fruits and has the face for radio - his portfolio is forever growing with nomadic projects paid for by the BBC license holder. It appears he can do no wrong, I'm not surprised having been playfully accosted by T S Elliott and dipped marshmallows in a chocolate fountain with Nelson Mandella - the 'world of Brandreth' is his oyster.

Fascinating read if you are destined to travel via train to a Scottish Island.